Winter
by trixsomme
Summary: Intoxicated with madness, grief, and disease, four unfortunates die in the course of one dark, cold winter night. Fate catches them in its grasp and refuses to free them, condemning them to repeat life in places and times unknown to them.
1. Prologue

Prologue

_Somewhere in a hidden memory  
__Images float before my eyes  
__The wind is full of a thousand voices  
__They pass by the bridge and me._

December 3, 1899.

It had not been one full month of winter when New York bloomed to an almost fully frozen solid state. Early December had left no safe transition from autumn's chill to winter's freeze. It had never been a welcome month in the city, nor was the cold it brought. The windows of every home and business were shrouded in a white mist and the mouths of passersby frothed with hazy gray smoke. The city, if held in the palm one's hand could scar the human skin with its scorching, biting chill. The winds blew curses at the buildings and scraped at the brick walls of the strongest to the shacks of Hell's Kitchen with jagged teeth. Icy rain nipped at the poorly clothed skins of homeless and destitute congregations lining the streets and sidewalks. Winter pushed and prodded everything within its reach, the weak and poverty stricken its best and easiest targets. Each newly falling year a renewed chance to pull at the souls of its victims with weapons of destruction. That year, it had plucked a particularly potent arrow out of its quiver – influenza.

Violent hacking coughs rattled through the thin walls of a long abandoned, decrepit wooden structure, chilling its interior with the coarse, cacophonous noise. A pale girl lay on the floor in a dim corner, lit only by a small fire. Long, dark strands of hair clung to her wet forehead, yet she still shivered violently beneath threadbare, moth eaten blankets. These mere coverings were nothing more than rags. Yet they were rags that formed that slight barrier between life and death. More than anything, she desperately needed to stay warm. Her efforts were futile. Her position upon the rags on the icy floor froze her skin and chilled her blood as once again her body shook with another strained hacking of the lungs. She closed her red rimmed, fevered eyes and tried to concentrate on the nonexistent sun burning a hole through the wall to heat the interior of her confine. But when she opened her eyes once more and gazed tiredly at the small crack in the boarded up window, she could only see darkness and white. It was still snowing.

She looked at her hand. Her skin had turned to a pasty chalk-white color that matched the drifts of snowflakes gently falling gently down. If she thought hard enough, she could have looked at the snow and imagined it beautiful. She could have let herself think back to her childhood – back to the smell of baking pies and warm fires. Back to a time when her only worry was if her brother had hidden her favourite doll from her again. Back to happiness.

But the happiness did not last long, for another menacing cough rattled her lungs and thrust her from her short-lived reverie. She sat up halfway, propping herself on her already far weakened arms as she continued to quake with the force of each new fit of coughs.

"Lie down, will you?" a soft voice came from the fireside. Another girl of the same age as her counterpart rose from a kneeling position and dusted the ash from her apron. Pushing the hair that always seemed to be falling into her eyes away, she hurriedly made way to the bed on the floor. "Ray, you've got to lie down and rest." She cradled the sick girl in the crook of her arm and gently lowered her back down to her pallet. "You're going to kill yourself." However, she quickly realized that dark truth in her statement, and regretted it immediately. Her face began to form a grimace, but she hurriedly transformed it into somewhat of a sad smile. She had to maintain a pleasant face. She had to remain looking as though she carried with her a great deal of hope.

"Don't tease me, Audrey," Ray said in a small weak voice, mustering up her best crooked smile.

She pressed the back of her hand to Ray's forehead. It felt clammy to the touch. Audrey pushed away brown strands of hair that had matted themselves to the sides of her flushed cheeks. Ray released another strained gasp of air, parting her cracked lips to do so and promptly choked once more. She could not move, nor would she try. Her head pounded as though her innards would crash through her skull and seep all around her in relief. That was what she desired, relief from the sickness that plagued her, and Audrey knew this more than well. Her body had begun to give up and her will had begun to deteriorate as well, the forced will to strive and go on was the size of a pin's head. Raven had formed a new goal – and that was just to let herself go. As she breathed, she felt her chest scratch with paper cuts and wheezed slowly. To breathe was a task to hard in itself and therefore she only wished to stop.

Audrey left Ray's side for a moment to seek out an extra piece of cloth. When she had scoured the room and found none, she looked over to Ray's bedding for one moment and considered pulling off a piece of her coverings. However, knowing that the sick girl could spare nothing, she soon pushed the thought from her mind as quickly as it had come. With a sigh of resignation, Audrey, bent over and ripped off the bottom of her skirt. She soaked it in a puddle of melting snow that had collected near the door and folded the cloth until it was a neat, thick, rectangular form. She then held it over the fire until the cold snow-water had heated to lukewarm, and then placed the cloth to Ray's forehead.

Not knowing what else she could possibly do to help her friend, Audrey brought her hand to rest against Ray's cheek, trying to offer her the least bit of comfort by caressing it. As her hand moved over the flushed, wet skin, Audrey noticed that it had become bony and calloused. The skin on it looked nearly as ashen as Ray's and there were cuts on almost every finger. Audrey's mind kept falling back to the inevitable - Death. It loomed amidst those walls and even Audrey herself was beginning to reek of it as she watched slow and painful deterioration conquering Ray's once unbreakable spirit. She wished more than anything that there was some way she could magically release Ray from the torture of illness. _Magically. Ha._ Audrey scoffed at the ridiculous notion that had somehow momentarily broken though every barrier she had set up and made an appearance in her mind. "Remember the old ways and keep them close to your heart for you may need to call upon them someday," her mother had always told her. Yet Audrey had long ago forsaken them as they had forsaken her, and she doubted that if they would heed her call if she suddenly were to draw upon them again.

Audrey reached for the small bowl of broth that she had prepared. Its contents were meager and thin, yet it would have to do. She helped Ray to a sitting position by propping her up on her arm and with her free hand, raised the bowl to Ray's mouth, tipping it to her lips. Ray parted her mouth ever so slightly and let the warmth pour over her tongue. It gently drifted down her throat and came to rest in the pit of her stomach, warming it like a wood-filled fireplace.

Ray drank it slowly. She tongued the top of her palette and smacked her lips thoughtfully. "It's chicken," she said in a pained, raspy voice. "Where the hell did you get chicken?"

"Shhhhh," Audrey interrupted her. "Don't you worry where I got chicken. It's not like it's that much anyway. Just a scrap I managed to conjure up." In truth, Audrey had made a little trip to a consignment shop that morning to sell one of her last possessions – a monogrammed handkerchief that her mother had made her a very long time ago. It had brought her enough money to buy a scrap of chicken and a little more for food for a few more days. One her way home, she pinched an apple from a stand when the vendor wasn't looking and mashed and cooked it for Ray's lunch.

Before Audrey could continue, the old wooden makeshift door opened with a loud creak. A gust of wind and swirled snow raced inside though the small cracked opening and a dark figure hurried in behind them, closing the door with a loud, jarring slam. Both Ray and Audrey turned every shred of their attention to the figure, who now stood in front of the door brushing the snow from his ragged coat and shaking snowflakes from his gray cap. Looking closer, Audrey saw that he was also shivering violently. "God fucking damn it," the figure said. "God damn snowstorm. Damn New York. Damn it to fucking hell!"

Audrey looked to Ray. Despite her ashen, paled complexion and her bloody red dotted cheeks, she could have sworn that the girl emitted a slight glow. Her eyes were open and her head tilted in such a way that the firelight reflected in her eyes and revealed the golden, scotch-liquor coloured flecks that lay under her pupil. At that moment, she looked more like herself than she had in weeks. She looked alive. Audrey rose, pulled her shawl tightly around her, and walked over to greet the newcomer. Upon reaching him, she mumbled a brief, "Hello Spot."

Spot nodded toward her and returned her greeting. "Audrey," he said briefly as he stepped quickly past her in his effort to get to where the suffering mass in the corner lay. Under his coat, he huddled a bundle close to his chest. It looked to be another ragged, threadbare blanket. Spot pulled it out from his coat and began to unfold it. Encased inside of it was a dark, half loaf of hardened day old bread which he placed on a crate near the makeshift bed. The blanket he unfurled and let drift over Ray. He tucked it around her shoulders as best he could. She had her eyes closed once again. He could not tell if she had drifted into a fever induced sleep or if she simply had not the energy to keep them open. He leaned over and pressed his cold, chapped lips to her perspiring forehead, allowing them to linger for one moment, the heat radiating from her fever absorbing into his skin.

Rising, he stole one back glance at Ray and then turned his attention to the one tending to her. But as he clearly spoke to Audrey, his eyes never strayed from the girl lying beneath the mounds of tattered blankets. "Have you eaten today?" he asked, to which Audrey shook her head in dissent. "Why not?" was his next question.

"Are you out of your bloody mind? Of course I didn't eat. I gave it all to Ray." Audrey answered him.

Spot picked up the loaf of bread which lay on the edge crate and broke it in half. "Here, we don't need anyone else getting sick." He held the bread out to Audrey.

"Conlon," she said in a stern voice, looking warily at him from under her thick bangs and taking one step back in retreat from his offering.

"Nellwyn," he replied in a tone that was equally unmoving and held the bread out to her more forcefully. With one eyebrow raised, he silently commanded her to take it.

Audrey scowled and reluctantly accepted it from his hand. Spot smiled a tad and returned his attention to Ray, kneeling at her bedside. After he had gone, Audrey hungrily bit off the end of the bread, chewing it quickly and almost choking herself by swallowing the bite whole. She sat by the fire with her back turned to Spot and Ray whilst she finished off the chunk of bread. A rat scurried across the toe of her boot and she shuddered. Audrey would have been at Ray's side but her place had been temporarily taken by Spot. In some part of her Audrey felt he had no right to be there – that she was tending to Ray like she always had and would continue to. She was the one who was there through the long hours of the day and night. When Ray woke she would rise as well and soothe the fevered girl back to sleep. If there was any saving to be done, Audrey's hands were to be the ones that did the rescuing, not Spot. But most assuredly, Audrey was certain that it was thoughts of Spot that kept her going and Spot's touch that she stayed alive for.

If Audrey had even suggested that Spot leave at that moment, her efforts would have been ignored. He sat next to Ray and gripped her hand in his own, running his thumb over her knuckles again and again. He looked down at the pale face and tried to remember her full of life when her cheeks were only red from the wind. From her appearance before him, it was hard to picture her ever being that way. Try as he may, the only way in which he could envision was her these days was as that ill, sickly pale, shell of herself lying amidst a sea of dirty, thin rags. Day after day he came to sit by her beside and each day passing saw no change for the better. Taking a deep, ragged breath, Spot squeezed her hand gently.

To his surprise, Ray laboriously let her eyes open a small crack. As they fell upon his face, Spot grinned lopsidedly and said, "Heya dollface." A slender smile struck the edges of her lips when she saw his warm, welcoming blue eyes staring down at her. She had been waiting for him all day. He was the only thing she wanted to see, and sometimes, as Audrey had mentioned and he too had begun to think, his visits were the only thing that kept her alive. Spot brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckled. "Rachel," he whispered and leaned down to let his mouth grace her cheek. As he sat there her heart had already begun to pound stronger. When he breathed her name, her real name, and kissed her cheek, Ray felt as though he were somehow reaching into her chest and gripping her heart with his hand to pump it for her.

"Shhhh, no. Don't talk," he told her gently. However, Spot knew as well as anyone that Ray would just plow forward and do exactly what she wanted to do when she wanted to do it, regardless of anyone's wishes or warnings.

"But I wanna talk. I waited all day for this," she said. She attempted to prop herself up to better hold a conversation with Spot. She struggled for a moment to get her arms underneath her. Spot said idly by, unmoving to the eye, but ready to leap to action should she need him. Rachel would never admit that she needed him for anything, he knew. She would never admit to needing anyone and never ask for help. A standard had long been set that, as a rule, Rachel never needed anything but Rachel. Spot knew that had not been the truth for about a month, yet, he was not going to risk upsetting her by trying to push any unwarranted caretaking upon her. As she pulled herself up on her arms, she faltered a bit...wavered and for a moment looked as she might tumbled backwards. Spot lurched forward his arms opening to catch her, but just as he began to move toward her, she recovered and steadied herself.

He pulled back, somewhat scared to even touch her for fear that he'd only do her harm. After a second's thought, his gut overpowered his head and he threw caution to the wind. Spot pulled her into his arms anyway and clutched her to his chest. He held her so close that he could feel her heart pounding beneath her skin. Raven rested her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes, his steady heartbeat's rhythm playing music in her ears. One, beat, two, beat, one two. One...beat...two...beat...Her breathing started to even out slowly and in a matter of moments she had drifted into a long awaited sleep. Spot laid her down gently and pushed more damp strands from her face, keeping them clear of her heavy lidded eyes. He then removed his coat from his lanky, thinly framed body and shivering as he did so, placed it over Ray's body and tucked the sides of it around her. Kissing each of her cheeks, he made certain that she was fully asleep and then tiptoed to where Audrey sat and looked on.

"Can't you do anything to help her?" Spot asked. He had removed his hat from his head and held it tightly. He passed it through his hands in a repetitive circular motion as though it helped him to think.

Audrey shook her head. "Spot, I'm doing all I can. There's no money for food or wood for a fire or even a decent blanket. So, there's definitely none for a proper doctor. I thought about going out and trying to get some money somehow, but that will never work. I just can't leave her here. She'd die for sure. It's influenza. It's spreading like wildfire around the city and thousands of people are dying because there's no food or enough doctors or medicine to go around. If an entire city cannot save its own, what would you have me, alone, do?"

"I don't know."

Spot's voice had almost broken when he said it. Audrey could sense the growing, gnawing desperation that was beginning to take hold. To take over his normally calm, cool, in control facade. His love was withering before his eyes, and Audrey was standing before him telling him that there was nothing on God's green earth that could be done for her because of bloody greenbacks and coins. She had never cared for Spot. He had always seemed too much of an arrogant, stubborn bastard that cared nothing for anyone but himself. However, Ray's disease had shown another side to him. It was another side that Audrey could not help but empathize with. What could she do? What could she do?

She frantically searched her mind for something – anything. Some answer to give him. Her mothers words came to mind again. The old ways. She still knew some of it – remedies and elixirs. Herbs. Chants for healing. Yes, these were all options, she supposed, but would they prove effective. Audrey had not studied in the Romani faith for sometime. Not since her mother had passed on. And she was only a halfbreed, born to a gypsy mother and a thoroughly English father. Was her bloodline even nearly pure enough to make any sort of healing device work? No. She could not risk it. Her poor education in the gypsy ways could prove more harmful than good. Too much or too little of anything could have unforeseen ill effects, which could make poor Rachel Tortulo even sicker. Audrey would not chance it. She would not dabble with a force that was unfamiliar and quite possibly very displeased with her.

As Audrey thought, Spot wandered over to the fire and threw a handful of pebbles and dust he had gathered from the floor into it. "She's getting worse." He stared into the weak fire's struggling, yet bright flames for some time. "If you were still working this wouldn't be as bad," he commented offhandedly.

Her jaw dropped a bit. "Look Conlon, it's not my fault we were fired and evicted if you remember. It was indeed your precious Ray's." Audrey replied. "What was I supposed to do, stay there without her? I would have just been watched more closely or even fired later on."

"She did what she thought was right," Spot sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. "But she should have left things alone."

"She should have," Audrey agreed, fingering the end of her thick braid. "But they would have let us both go soon anyway. We were the first on the brink of a mass turnover. There were too many little Chinese coming in with nimbler hands and willing to work for far less wages." She paused and scuffed the toe of her worn thin shoe on the dirty floor. "Spot," she added, hesitantly, "You don't think this is my fault, do you?"

Spot shook his head no.

Audrey nodded. "Good," she said quietly, and then promptly changed the subject. "Have you talked to Jack at all today?" she asked him.

"I did yesterday, but not today. No, I haven't even seen him today."

"I haven't spoken to him in three days. But he promised he would come today. He promised. He should have been here by now." Audrey gazed forlornly out of the slit that comprised the window and watched the graceful snow fall to the ground. "It's getting so late." She flattened her palm against the wall and stared at her calloused and chapped hand. "Jack," she said quietly. "Where are you? Are you a figment of my imagination? Did I dream you up? You're becoming more of a memory instead of anything constant or tangible. And I can't stand it." She sighed and kicked herself for having been so weak and willing to give into how much she missed him. "He'll be here," she reassured herself and turned her mind and attention back to caring for her friend.

Jack pulled his rusted watch from his pants pocket. He dusted the fog off of its face and squinted. His eyes could just barely make out the time: ten forty seven. His shift scrubbing the floors, tables, and the lavatory at Joe McGarty's Tavern had just ended and his pockets were a few coins richer. McGarty's was a seedy place and as Joe himself claimed, was filled with nothing but cheats, liars, no-goods, drunks, and crooks – but Jack was willing to overlook that for the extra jingle in pockets. He gripped his few newspapers as tightly as he could, but still had a weak hold. He held on to them barely, his ice cold fingers weak and tired and far from feeling the ink beneath them. They hadn't sold that morning, and he somehow hoped that he could trick a few drunks into buying two or three of them off of him so that it would not be a complete waste.

He was cold. No, he was more than cold, he was past frozen and his whole body shivered and chattered violently as he walked down the bare streets. The newspapers began to slip through his frostbitten fingers and he just let them go. The floated to the floor in a shuffle of black and white and slid down into the mud of slosh ridden cobblestones. He turned, and continued on down an alley way. The wind rushed through the crevice and seemed to punch him in the gut sending him leaning against the brick face. He coughed, his body shaking as a patch of phlegm trickled into his mouth. He spat it onto the dirt covered floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He slid down the wall slowly before coming to a crouched position at the base. He was so tired.

Audrey left Spot's side and sat next to Ray on the floor, feeling her forehead once again for any welcome change. However, she was greatly disheartened to find more heat in her skin than cool. Without a word, Ray grabbed Audrey's hand, removed it from her head and placed it on the edge of the blankets. Audrey stared at her for a moment, mostly in shock that her care was being pushed away.

"I can't always be around to protect you Audrey, you have to learn to stand up for yourself," Ray words were gravely and more mumbled than clearly spoken. It was apparent that even to speak was an uphill battle in a war that she would likely not win. "I'm not the only thing that can stop others from hurting you." It was almost as though the winter had turned recoiled itself back and autumn were upon them once more. They were back in the factory and Ray was scolding her friend for not defending herself against their catty coworkers.

"_You're just going to let her say that to you? Ugh. Audrey, really. God," Ray spoke in loud nearwhispers at they sat on a bench at a long table with about one hundred other young, female workers in their midst. "You see, if I were you, I would go over there and punch her lights out. Delores too. The both of them need a good black eye."_

"_And that's why you're not me," Audrey said, her voice hushed. "I do wish you'd keep your voice down, they can probably hear you." Audrey poked her head up from her lunch and looked up and down the table for signs of someone eavesdropping. She fiddled with the waxed wrapping on her sandwich. "Besides, Ray, you don't know what kinds of problems they may be dealing with. They might have a perfectly good reason for acting that way...like they're having a bad week or maybe they're married to awful men who beat them and make them slave away in hot kitchen. They aren't hurting me. I'll survive I'm sure. I'm not made of glass, you know. Words will not scar me."_

"_Audrey, you're such a martyr, really. You make me sick. You want me to go over there and tell them a thing or two?" Ray was getting a bit riled up and her voice was rising with her temper. She had begun to stand up from her seat when Audrey pulled her back down with one good, hard yank._

"_No," she growled at Ray in soft tones, "I want you to sit here and finish your lunch." She looked over her shoulder and her eyes fell upon where Marcia and Delores were sitting. Noticing her eyes upon them, the two others leaned over to whisper amongst themselves and giggle. After they'd had a small laugh, they both made gruesome, twisted faces at Audrey. Audrey turned around, her pride hurt a bit, but still determined not to allow Ray to see that their actions had phased her in the slightest way. She wanted to cry, or at the very least, run away to where their mocking eyes would not find her, yet she regained her composure and sat fast in her seat._

"_I should go over there and give them a piece of my mind," Ray mumbled through her teeth. _

"_Rachel," Audrey began, using Ray's full name with a matched hard gleam in her eyes for the utmost effect, "I swear to you that if you do anything to those two – if you give them a mean look, if you say anything to them or to anyone about them, and especially if you lay one finger on them, I will disown you as a friend. I promise you that."_

_Ray sneered at Audrey and then slumped down in her seat and sulked. She crossed her arms over her chest and mocked Audrey silently. "You know Audrey...." she said in a louder voice, "You are just.....just...NO...FUN." _

"_Well, you are a rabble-rouser," Audrey retorted._

"_Priss," Ray returned._

_This remark caused Audrey to return with a decisive, "Loudmouth."_

"_Know it all."_

"_Crude."_

"_Halfbreed."_

"_Liar."_

"_Thief."_

"_Boy."_

_Ray recoiled in shock and anger. Her face beheld and expression of pure disgust and her lip began to curl slightly in horror. She stared Audrey down with venom in her eyes. "How. Dare. You?!?" she spat out._

_Audrey examined Ray in her state of terror and a gleeful sort of mischief kindled and flickered in her dark eyes. Suddenly, she began to softly giggle. The giggle developed into a laugh, which in turn, soon erupted into a full outburst. Audrey laughed with her mouth open and head thrown back without care for how Ray felt or who was watching. _

_Before long, a smirk appeared on Ray's face. She mumbled something in the vein of, "Oh, you think you're funny, don't you?" and continued to watch Audrey fall over herself laughing. Slowly, she began to uncoil from her furled position of disgusted retreat, and soon, she had joined her friend and the two laughed together wholeheartedly._

But the time for laughter had long passed. The memory soon broke and started to fade. With renewed vigor and determined vengeance, Audrey left her friend's side and retreated into the far corner. Once there she began to pull vials from an old, rumpled gray canvas bag. Audrey was surprised in herself that she had kept them as long as she had. But then, these were the ones she had been told to always hold on to. Audrey wiped the dust of disuse off of the glasses and held a bottle up to the light. Its contents looked untouched and unharmed by time. Perhaps they would still be of some use to her. From under the bag, she produced an old brown leather book. Without a moment wasted, she began to flip through the pages to frantically search for an answer amongst its text. She was looking for something to heal, to bless...to bring forth life from the present ruins. Angrily, she flung her near-black braid behind her shoulder and tore through another set of pages. She knew that what she sought was indeed there, but it seemed that her eyes were missing it.

Spot made his way over to her and was looking over Audrey's shoulder and at the collection of strange bottles and sacks of unknown objects that lay before her. He clicked his tongue, and then crouched down.. "Well, well, Audrey Nellwyn...our own resident British witch. I must say, I'm not surprised. It must be hard," he said. "Believing in God and the occult, all at the same time."

Audrey did not bother to take her eyes from her task when she plainly answered, "It's not God and the occult. It's the same thing. We just believe that God works in mysterious ways sometimes."

"You kept a book? I mean, you've had it all this time? Why didn't you sell it or something?" Spot asked, with a note of incredulous reprimand in his voice.

"Because I need it" was Audrey's simple answer. She licked her finger and flicked though a few more pages before throwing her head back and groaning loudly. "Bloody fucking hell! Nothing fits...damn it..nothing fits!"

"What do you mean nothing fits? That's a huge book. There's got to be something in there. Something."

"Well, there are pieces of things, but none that are exactly tailored to what we want. I can't use anything that promotes things we are not wholly trying to achieve. You don't play with things like this. It either fits the situation or it doesn't. And if it doesn't, you do not use it." She turned more pages, studying the text on each. "Well," she said after examining a few additional passages. "I suppose I could piece together one of my own." Audrey bit her bottom lip at the idea. "But I've never done that before. I'd have to make sure that I encompassed everything we wanted. That I cover all of the ground. Now, let's think – what do we need? We need one for healing sickness..restoration of the body and soul. And...maybe one for vanquishing...death." She hesitated over saying that last word, but it was unavoidable and too present to just graze over unmentioned. Audrey exchanged worried gazes with Spot and then immediately returned her eyes to her book. The pain in his eyes was equal to hers and put together, it was too much to bear. "How about a strong friendship too? Something about not leaving the ones you love."

"That's good," Spot said. "And...maybe something about...not breaking the bonds of love. That what was meant for each other should stay together."

Audrey looked up from her text and gave Spot a soft smile. There was hope in his voice and a sweet, gentleness she had not expected out of the usually sardonic boy. "Yes, something for that too," she assured him. Suddenly there was a painful hacking cough coming from the girl beneath the tattered blankets, her face has gone from a cream colored white to near blue as she tried to catch her breath. She tried to breath but it only caused another round of vicious attacks on her lungs and she grasped her chest. Both she and Spot instantly turned their attention to the pallet in the corner. "We've got to hurry," Audrey said with a strained, yet calm desperation.

She picked up a twig from the floor and broke it until it was small enough to easily wield in her hand. "Your knife?" she asked of Spot. He fished though his pocket and handed her his pocketknife. She accepted it and began to whittle away at the stick's end. When she'd fashioned a point out of it, she returned it to Spot. Audrey rose, and then hurried over to the fire, from where she gathered in her skirt a fair amount of ash. On her return, she passed by a pile of scrap wood that she had been burning in the fire and plucked from it a flat, somewhat clean piece. She carried the wood to her place beside her book and vials and set off to work.

The stick's tip, she stuck in her mouth to wet with saliva. Whilst she was wetting the end, with her other hand, she flipped to a page in the book and placed her finger on a certain line. Satisfied that her stick's tip was wet enough, she dipped it in the ash and began to scrawl across the piece of found wood a line copied from the book's pages.

She continued like this for some time – flipping pages, placing her fingers on parts of verses, writing hurriedly with the ash-inked stylus. Scratching verses out and starting over, staring at the fire in order to think more clearly and add original sections when the book could not provide her with what she wished for. When she had written down a fair amount, she began to line up and chose from her collection certain vials filled with herbs and leaves...powders, sticks, and liquid. In one small crude bowl, she poured several powders and added a splash of a goldeny liquid. To this mixture, Audrey added a few leaves from several varied jars. She crushed the leaves with her fist and then mixed all of the ingredients together with her hand, continuing to mash and integrate all parts evenly to a smooth consistency.

After another burst of coughs and wheezing from Ray, Audrey heard Spot call out, "Hurry, please."

"I'm almost done," she answered him. She recovered the things she was looking for and laid several more of them out on the floor. In another bowl, she combined several powders and only added a dash of dark liquid to make a paste instead of a drinkable fluid. Once more, she began to turn the pages of her book, flipping each with a calm, steady precision and strong resolve. Finally complete, Audrey wiped her stained, soiled hands on her skirt and carried the board she had scrawled upon and both small bowls over to her suffering friend's bedside. "Ray," she whispered softly. "Ray, give me your hand."

"Whaddaya want my......my...hand for?" The sentence was broken by coughs and gasps.

"I'm-" She paused and then looked over to Spot and corrected herself. "We're going to do something that will help you, okay? I need you to take Spot's hand and mine, and then-"

"What are you goin' to do?"

Audrey smiled in spite of herself. Even near death, Ray was persistent and desperate to know everything. "I wrote a spell." As she said the word, she could see a strange look of uncertainty and confusion come over Ray's face. Audrey quickly explained, "Well, not really a spell. It's more of a blessing than anything. It's only good. Nothing evil or slightly ambiguous in nature. I promise."

"You...wrote a ...spell?" Ray repeated weakly. Evidently, it was all that she had allowed herself to hear. Audrey nodded. Ray narrowed her heavy eyes slightly. "A gypsy...spell?" she asked struggling through the words and barely managing breath between them. Audrey once again nodded. "From your...from your book?" Ray's voice was growing more raspy and undefined with each new question she posed. Audrey could only nod once more. Ray sucked her chapped bottom lip into her dry mouth, feeling the iron taste of dried blood fill her it. She looked around the room as she collected her thoughts. Her eyes last connected with Spot's. In his, she detected an urgency, a desperation. A pleading that she twisted her heart and multiplied her already present pain times over. "Alright," she said finally in a strained whisper, barely audible. "Go ahead."

Audrey nodded to Spot and he took one of Ray's hands. As he did, he could feel her body tense and rubbed his finger over her knuckles to comfort and reassure her. Audrey slipped one hand behind Ray's head and tipped it up. Into her mouth, she poured a yellowish liquid. As the bitter tasting fluid entered her mouth, Ray choked on it and a small stream of it came back up and slid down the corner of her mouth. "Drink it slowly," Audrey whispered to her. "Just try to get some of it down." She poured more into Ray's mouth and this time, Ray fought with it and through a laboured struggle, managed to keep down two swallows. Audrey lowered her head back down to the floor and caressed her cheek. She then, took a portion of the darker paste from the other bow into her hand. Using her thumb and forefinger, she smeared the paste across the center of her friend's forehead, making a thick brown line just above her brow. Ray's eyes had closed and the girl did not stir. She lied solid and unmoving. Her only sound the wheeze of her arduous breath and choking noises from the back of her throat. Audrey could instinctively tell that she was fading fast and that every second would now need to be precious and used well. She would have to work quickly.

Audrey struck a match on her boot and with great care not to extinguish it, touched its flame to an already mostly spent yellow tallow candle. It took to the wick and lit immediately. Audrey shook out the match and gray smoke poured from it, its tendrils wrapping around her cold dark hair like a ghostly halo. The candlelight's flicker reflected in her eyes. Audrey took a deep breath and in a low voice began her prose.

_"Oh, intranquil spirit,  
you that are in hell wandering  
and will never reach heaven, hear me,  
oh, hear me"_

Outside, the snowfall increased. Spot stole a quick glance out of the window and found the outside nearly opaquely white with frothy downpour. Following Spot's lead, Audrey also hurriedly glanced through the window's opening, but ignored it and continued her recitation.

_"Seek what beckons you near  
Follow the light back to thy rightful place."_

Ray's coughing began again, yet each bellow sounded more full of sickly rasp and rattle. The room was growing colder to Spot. He reached out a hand to her cheek to soothe her, yet her fit did not ease or lessen. If pain could possibly be made tangible, Spot would have sworn that he physically felt hers when his palm touched her face.

"Return to me," Audrey whispered slowly. She paused for a moment, her eyes never leaving Rachel's ashen face. Then she, with louder voice growing with confidence and determination, spoke forcefully.

"_Heal this frail body.  
__Let it no longer rest in evil's grasp.  
__Restore what was once whole._

_May the life flow through you  
__And carry you beyond eternal sleep's cold grip  
__May death grant you no recompense  
__May you know all that time holds for you  
__And may the reach of your hand extend to those days yet to come."_

A draft blew in from one or many of the open cracks and crevices in the unwhole structure. Its chilled bitter wind circled around and blew through the meager clothing of three lone figures. Spot shivered as its icy fingers grasped his skin. He looked to Audrey. The wind wafted through her hair and lifted it, yet she showed no reaction. Her expression appeared entranced. The deepness of her eyes looked unfathomable as the candlelight reflected off of the black nothingness. There was something unholy in them chilled Spot more than he thought possible. He refocused on Ray's paling face and clenched her hand more tightly.

"_Hail fair moon_," she continued in a still, unwavering voice.

_"Ruler of the night;  
Guard me and mine  
Until the light_

_Hold together that which should never be apart.  
__Let all hearts be known to those familiar  
__Protect the fragile ties fastening one to another  
__Let all that is ever lost be found once more  
__No harm shall come to those God has joined."_

Audrey reached into the bowl beside her and scooped out a bit more of the dark chocolate coloured paste. Fingertip to Ray's forehead once more, she formed another thick line, similar to the first, but perpendicular instead of parallel. When Audrey removed her hand, Ray's brow bore a dark cross. Audrey wiped the remainder of the paste onto her own skirt and closed her eyes to finish the final verse.

"_What is bound together shall not be broken  
__What is bound together shall not be broken  
__What is bound together shall not be broken."_

As soon as her mouth had uttered the final word, a forceful gust of wind burst through the old wooden door, viciously pushing it open. It slammed hard against the thin wall through making the frail building shudder violently. The rushing current tore through the room and hushed out the candle instantly, sending dried herbs fluttering into the air. Skirts and hair flying, Audrey snapped out of her trance-like state, and as though returning to life, jumped up and rushed to the door. Using a good deal of strength, she shoved it closed with a grunt.

After the brief chaos subsided to calm, Spot resumed his watch over Ray. At first glance, he thought he was mistaken. He blinked twice. How could it be? His eyes had only left her for one second to watch Audrey leap up to close the door. He inched closer to her and gripped her hand, feeling for a pulse and when he received none, he dropped it in shock. Her arm fell back to the floor, limp. He stared at her chest willing her to breathe. However, her chest did not begin to rise and fall in response, it merely stayed solid as stone. "Audrey." When he uttered her name it came out pained and edgy, as though he was near choking.

They both lingered after for a while in the cold warehouse, just looking upon the face of their newly passed friend, neither knowing what exactly to think, do, say, or even feel. Spot still held Ray's hand. He clung to it, not willing to let it go for fear that if he did, he was accepting the fact that she was really gone, and he was not emotionally stable or ready enough to face those harsh terms of the grim reality of it all. At that moment, he hated God as he never had before, and made a solemn vow to somehow get even with Him for taking Rachel away from him. She was, quite possibly, the only thing that he had ever loved outside of himself.

"I guess there's nothing more I can do here," Spot said after a time of seemingly infinite silence, his voice low, yet sharp. His eyes never left his dead love as he spoke. Slowly, he stood and grabbed his hat and lifted his coat from around the still unmoving girl he had loved. After putting them on, he nodded at Audrey and told her that he'd be back the next morning to help her with any arrangements that needed to be done. "You should get some sleep," he told her in parting, and then hurried out of the door.

Audrey had only nodded slightly at Spot when he left. She was too grief stricken and downright shocked to speak or move. Audrey Nellwyn and Rachel Tortulo had been together for quite some time. They'd lived together, worked together, laughed together, and lost it everything they had in one unforeseen moment together. To Audrey, it seemed more like she were losing a part of herself than merely a friend. It felt unreal, as thought it weren't happening. Feeling as if she were in a bad dream, she pondered how she could possibly wake herself out of it. Yet, as much as she tried to shake it off, it was still there and unmovable. It was not supposed to happen. None of it was. Yet it did, and it was her fault. The guilt mounted within her. It stacked itself so high within her that she could barely breathe. One, weak, pathetic whimper worked its way from her throat and then silence. But the silence was chased by one tear. One tear that became another, and another, until saltwater cascaded down her face in droves and sobbing wracked her already weakened body. It should have been her – it should have been Audrey that died. It was her blessing – her blessing that turned out to be an utter curse and quenched the life force of her best friend.

Audrey stood at the window and looked out onto the night. The snow had stopped falling and through the blackness of the sky, she could make out the waning crescent moon clearly. All was still and quiet in her sphere of existence. She thought she heard Ray laugh, but harshly chided herself with a reminder that she would never again hear Ray laugh. It was only her imagination. Just as it was her imagination that told her that she had one ounce of a chance to save her. To prolong one dying light in the midst of a storm. She was a foolish, naive girl whose head was never satisfied with remaining below the clouds. . Staring out of the window once more, in jest she raised her forefinger and brought it up above her head. Audrey placed the tip over her finger over the moon, making it no longer visible to her eye. She bitterly laughed at the irony of it all. "I cannot save the life of my best friend with a simple enchantment," she thought acrimoniously, "Yet, I can put out the moon."

She would not sleep that night.

Therefore, she crossed herself in true English Anglican fashion, cursed the Romani and her gypsy heritage, and then in the same breath, mixed a good amount of her herbal cures together in one dose, and then choked them down. She might have held scores of hatred and anger in one violent grudge against the old ways, but she needed them to help her sleep that night. Drained, dizzy, and with nothing left to think or wonder, she pulled a thin blanket over Ray's graying face, and then curled up in a spot next to her on the floor. She had only her own meager coat as protection from the cold that seeped in through every tiny crack and chilled the ground she lay on.

Through her eyes the burned both from tears and fatigued, the world became hazy and blurred. It swum around her and made her sick to her stomach. A growing, gnawing ache was eating at her insides. She doubled over and curled into a ball in response to the sharp, cramping pain. Sweating and weak, Audrey managed to pull herself up to a stand and then limped and stumbled to a far corner of the warehouse where she bent in half and wretched. After she had finished, she could have sworn she tasted blood at the back of her throat. She felt better for a split moment – long enough to drag herself back to her pallet of rags on the floor. Though, once she lied down again, she was overtaken by the same weakness and draining nausea. She felt lightheaded and suddenly overwhelmingly fatigued. She just needed to rest for a moment. Yes, that was it. Audrey simply needed to sleep...to close her eyes and be blind to the world. To forget.

Spot shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his middle finger sliding through a hole birthed from an unbreakable nervous habit. Though half of him knew that he should have stayed behind to help Audrey even if there was nothing really that he could do, Spot knew that he had to leave. His only salvation was to get out as quickly as he could, and run straight for the arms of solace that Brooklyn always held open to him. Brooklyn. Brooklyn was steady, certain, and never faltering. Not matter how hard or how far he fell, she always caught him and comforted him until he was stable enough to pick himself back up. That night he needed her more than ever.

He plodded through freshly fallen snow that covered the streets of lower Manhattan, scarring its surface with gray brown lined pits where his boots fell, making a path behind him that, if followed, would have led straight to the bridge. Spot had known for a few weeks that Ray's death was imminent. He had lay awake long after every one else was far into deep sleep coming to terms with the dark veil that was soon to fall over his known world. His preparation insured that when the time came, he could be able to maintain a solid, strong exterior. Even in the face of the most harrowing event to ever shake the tender twenty years of his life, he could not and would not break down. Realization was entirely too present, yet acceptance was not something forthcoming.

Life was tough, and Spot knew it well. He was not the only one in the world to ever suffer, to ever lose something dear to him. His entire existence had been formed around and surrounded by those at unfortunate as himself. What had they done when great misfortune befell them? Did they let go and simply shrivel up and die? No. He couldn't just stop breathing now could he? It was one rotten hand that fate had dealt him, and not it held all the cards. Spot paused. He kicked a piece of broken bottle that had wedged itself into the snow with the toe of his boot. Sighing, she shrugged his shouldered and straightened his back. He pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck to better protect his exposed flesh from the searing winds. Spot brought a hand up to his face, massaged his brow, and then rubbed his eyes. He shoved his hand back into his pocket and looked up to the star-filled sky. Deep into the darkness, prayers were rising softly, he was sure. Somewhere the sun was rising over the dunes in the desert. Somewhere it was raining on a grassy plane. Somewhere there was a warm fire and a duck roasting on the hearth. Somewhere two lovers exchanged whispered vows. But on that empty corner of that abandoned street in lower Manhattan, Spot was alone and the world was unspeaking to him.

As he listened to the night's stillness, he could make out the faint joyful, drunken cries coming from a tavern down the street....and for a fleeting moment, he thought he faintly heard something more welcoming. Ray's voice seemed so clear...so calmly she was calling. But when he turned around, there was no one standing behind him. Spot rubbed his stinging eyes and once more turned his gaze upward. He wanted to open his mouth and scream in anguish into the sky. His chest constricted and his mind, at best, was reeling. His heart was swollen inside of his chest with tears that poured into him but had not been allowed to surface. Facing the fact that she was dead was harder than he had expected and beyond any preparation he could have done. Slowly, Spot's mental stronghold and physical facade crumbled into grains of sand. Not a single hapless bum or passerby played witness to his undoing. No length of coming to terms or logical rationalization could save anyone from the pain, Spot now knew undeniably.

Spot would have suffered blindly until death finally dragged him down into the hot pits of hell. That's where he felt he belonged, to burn for all eternity for the sins of his youth. He deserved it more than she had. If he could have taken her place he would have gladly done so. But that was selfish – wishing the alleviation of his own pain of knowing a life after her. Which would have been better...more right? He did not know. Spot Conlon would just have to play out his hand. He began his trek once more. Walking steadily, he considered what the future held for him now. As odds were, he would probably marry a woman he could tolerate and would keep house for him, but was mediocre at best. They would, together, give birth to a brood of children that looked like him and shared his name but did not know their father as they should. Every night, Spot would return home from his grueling, underpaid job in a manufactory and pause long enough to pat them on their heads and slurp down a half-filling dinner before passing out cold in his bed. It was misery by no other name. Rachel, in her own miracle of a way, had held such great potential for him – such hope that was certain never to find again. His heart and soul would never find rest as real and as simply true as it had in her. If only he could have gone with her. If only he could have followed. Because, hell, what did he have to life for anyway?

Of course, then and there everything seemed so bleak. So tragic and so final. There would long not be room for the comfort that time would most likely bring. Spot blindly and deafly strode onward into the night, he did not notice the silhouette trailing him. After a moment, the one lone figure became three, clouded in black and shield by the night's cloak. Spot was oblivious to them as he continued to remain lost in his own heavy heart and hopeless world. Each step he took, they took two, greatly lessening the gap between he and they with each passing second. Another wind came up and Spot shivered his its presence. He stopped for a moment to readjust his coat's collar.

"Heya Conlon," a dark voice called from the dark. "We got a little surprise for you." The voice slithered through Spot's eardrums and made the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He spun around as fast as he could, but had no time to utter a sentence or fight back in defense. With a loud thud, a coarse chunk of brick connected with the side of his head and slammed dead on into his left temple. A gasp caught in the back of Spot's throat and without a word, he crumpled and fell into a sprawled heap upon the ground.. Unmoving, the heat of his lifeless body wilted the snow beneath him and Spot's body slowly sank into its covering. A neat trail of deep crimson blood flowed from his wound and spilled onto the snow, a harsh red burn against the purity of the powder beneath it in perfect contrast.

Jack had taken refuge in the middle of the square. He leaned against the cold, solid statue of Horace Greeley with eyes half closed. He just wanted to stay there, to stay there and somehow still be warm. Yet, warmth was impossible – unattainable. Anywhere he went he would freeze. To save the one ounce of dignity he had left, Jack almost forced himself to stand and continue on, but as quickly as he mustered the strength to rise, exhaustion took hold once more. No. Everything within him screamed. He had to get up, to make money, to provide. As he sat wasting time, Ray hovered one inch away from death. He needed to provide the means with which to save her.

The snow had begun to fall again. A brutal fit of coughs overtook and rattled his shaky body. _Stop_. **No**. Jack was not sick. He would not allow himself to be. He was simply tired. There was no way in hell or New York he was going to be sick. Ray. Ray was the one who wasn't well. Dying. "Damn it. Fuck," he muttered under his breath. She would die – Jack knew it and the very thought of it drove him mad. He couldn't save her, damn him. But he could get his pathetic ass up from the statue's base and try. He had to try. He needed her know that he tried. Another cough took hold of him and held his good intentions captive.

**NO. **

He leaned his head back against the smooth surface of Greeley's pant leg and closed his eyes. Swallowing hard, Jack felt himself slip off of the statue's base and down its pedestal's side onto the ground. He swallowed hard. From the corners of his eyes hot tears began to trail down the side of his face. His chest was burning and each strugglig breath was a fight to the death. His body was aching. His head was pounding. Ray was dying. Audrey...

"Audrey." The word passed through Jack's lips and faded as quickly as he had put it to voice. He shut his eyes tightly once more and it was as though she were standing before him instantly, her soft fingers touching his face gently.

"Don't cry silly boy," she whispered to him and kissed his forehead. The touch ignited a fire within him and his whole body began to warm. She wrapped her arms around him and encased him fully, barring out the snow which had begun to fall around him. Oddly enough the snow seeping through this threadbare pants was not as bone chilling cold as he had expected. Instead it felt more like lukewarm rain upon his skin. It was Audrey. She made him warm. She could make the entire city warm if she tried, he thought. More tears began to slip from his eyes and clotted in his lashes. He could no longer open his eyes because the cold had turned them to ice and frozen his lashes shut. Surrendering to his imagination and fatigue, Jack decided that he would stay for just awhile longer. Yes, just a short while. Then he would get up, sell a few papers or two and then head home so that he could rise the next morning and push a good one hundred and fifty papers before noon. Slowly, Jack's good will began to dissolve until it released into a peaceful slumber. The snow continued to fall around his still form and blanketed him with a pure shield. It spread out like an infinite cloak and mercilessly shrouded the ground as well as the frozen boy beneath it. Three blocks away, the clock of the old St. Augustine's tolled out the twelve chimes as midnight fell upon the city.

* * *

**Tues**: dies from finishing up Chapter One at 4 in the bloody morning after only one week of work  
**Ravy**: That is all folks. bows Yes, we are nuts.  
**Tues.:** We are. But we are novelty items. People should collect us.  
**Ravy**: Seriously, they'd make a fortune from us off Ebay.  
**Tues:** Especially me because I never run out of energy.  
**Ravy:** I'd be special because I am a New Yorker. Period. I am a special breed of human.  
**Tues:** Snob.  
**Ravy:** Boy............ "Why are you crying?" Muahaha. Peter Pan, Bitch. I am the Queen of Randomly Goodness. (tm)  
**Tues:** I should have been recoiling in mock horror. I forgot. recoils in mock horror

(behind the scenes snippets from the creation of winter)

**Tues**: You've got a club hitting Spot in the head. I was gonna use a brick.  
**Ravy:** A brick is too heavy. It wouldn't be a neat hit. He could live.  
**Tues:** Do we need a neat hit?  
**Ravy:** Yeah. Something that's gonna bash him.  
**Tues**: I mean, even I could swing a brick and kill someone. They don't have to throw it, just slam it against the side of his head. A club is too long, not much precision because your hand it so far back. But a brick...hand, brick, head – it's all right there man.  
**Ravy:** That's true, so change it to a brick.

(during talk of snogging Billy in the Smashing Pumpkins' Bullet With Butterfly wings video.)

**Tues:** You have a Billy!Muse.  
**Ravy:** I so do.

**Tues:** How does a cough sound? Like if you wrote it, how would it sound?  
**Ravy**: cuaha. chuack?  
**Tues:** cuahahah.... ahcuhuh.  
**Ravy:** You know I coughed to do that.  
**Tues**: Yeah me too.

This chapter celebrated with birthday cake.

**Tues:** And booze...because I can so buy it now.

(We encourage review leaving so that we can talk to you instead of boring you with our meaningless rambling via a/n.)

**Ravy**: Our ramble is not meaningless...I would just like to talk to someone other then my darling Tuesday _smirk  
_**Tues**: Yeah, yeah. And if you're wondering, yes we are going somewhere with this. So, stay tuned.

(Opening poetry/lyrics courtesy of Loreena McKennitt.)


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One  
December 3, 1922.  
Chicago.

_I hear some distant drumbeat  
__A heartbeat pulsing low  
__Is it coming from within  
__A heartbeat I don't know_

_May the spirit never die  
__Though a troubled heart feels pain  
__When the long winter is over  
__It will blossom once again._

"The world's bleeding white again," Regina thought as she forlornly gazed out of her second story window. One hand held back the rich, velvet drapes as she knelt on the chaise pushed against the wall near the window. She rested her forehead against the cold pane and stared onto the street laden with snow drifts. The coolness of the frosty glass felt good against her aching head. She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined herself lying comfortably in bed with a cool compress resting on her forehead. With a ragged sigh, she pulled herself together and dragged her feet to her dressing table. She flopped heavily down upon the upholstered stool and looked at the contents spread before her. Quickly checking her reflection in the mirror, she smoothed over a few loose strands of mahogany hair, damp from being pressed against the condensation on the window.

She then brought a long strand of pearls over her head and adjusted them around her neck. Reaching into her jewelry box, she produced a simple diamond encrusted cross and set about fastening it behind the nape of her neck. Regina felt a hand lightly brush across the top of her shoulders and a deep voice warmly say, "Let me help you with that." Looking into the glass in front of her, she saw a handsome man smiling back at her, suited complete with coat, vest, and tails. His cuff links caught the light and sparkled as he took the two ends of the necklace from her and fastened the clasp behind the dark locks of his wife's hair.

"Thank you, Phillip," said Regina lovingly.

"You look lovely dear," Phillip said with another smile. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. As he did, he brought a hand to the very cheek that he had kissed and held its back to her skin. A small grimace of concern washed the smile from his face. "Actually, now that I take a second glance at you, I'm afraid that you look flushed darling. Are you feeling well?"

"I have a slight headache," Regina answered. "But, I took that powder the doctor prescribed in my tea a half hour ago, so it should go away. I'm fine, really," she reassured him and added a wide smile for further convincing purposes. Philip seemed won by this answer and soon left her alone to continue dressing. She looped one citrine and pearl earring through the hole in her left ear and caught sight of herself in the looking glass. She did look a trifle flushed and her eyes were a bit more sunken in than usual. Reaching for more pressed powder and rouge, Regina attributed her appearance to her headache and the fact that she had not gotten much sleep the night before.

It seemed as though she had waken a hundred times, but she knew it was closer to only four. The dreams had returned once more. They came in multiples, often repeating and each time, she was woken to a full sitting position between them. In them, there were always the same players, always the same setting. She, herself was present, but at a slightly younger age. The other person in the dreams was another girl of an age much like her own. They both wore long skirts and white waistcoats meant more for work than show, and their clothing was smudged. Both she and the other woman were gathered near a meager fire in a run down structure of sorts. In the course of the dream, they conversed, performed normal everyday tasks, and warmed their hands in front of the flame while the room around them consistently crumbled and dismantled itself. As the building collapsed around them, both girls paid it no heed, but only remained in their places and laughed. It was always the same girl and the same setting. During her sleep, as the dream was taking place, the face of her companion was so familiar to her, so comforting. Yet, her features would always melt into an indistinguishable blur upon waking and Regina could hold down no remembrance of her.

Almost every morning after another episode of her reoccurring dream, she performed the same ritual. She would walk into the kitchen in her nightgown and robe, and make a large cup of black coffee. Then she would wander the empty, cold house, blue lit with dawn's breaking light and try to recall or place the nature of her dream. During these moments of quiet introspection, Regina had always felt strange, ephemeral, and unstable. She felt transitory ...as though she were part of two worlds at the same time: a fictional world of altering dreamscapes and portraits of past half drawn memories and the world of the woken and rational. She liked and despised it at the same time. On one hand, it made her feel otherworldly, ancient, and mysteriously omniscient. On the other, she felt as though the axis of her life had been knocked askew, leaving her confused and her headaches more intense.

Regina looked into the mirror. She ran her index finger lightly over her brow, and then with it, traced the edge of her cheek bone and jaw. Tilting her head to the side, she found that the longer she stared at her own familiar face, the more foreign it became to her. Her face could have been any random person's face just as much as it had been her own. She could have been the stranger or the stranger could have been Regina. "Who are you?" she said to herself or perhaps the girl that existed only in her unconscious mind. "Every time I see you I do this. And as I do, I just slightly began to recall things that you say or have said. But these things that I somewhat remember, I couldn't possibly know that you say because I don't know you." She stared hard at her reflection and tried to place the stranger's indistinguishable face over her own so that she could examine it in a conscious state and try to peer behind the blurred veil to discern her features. "What am I doing?" she asked herself and scoffed at the ridiculousness of how much time and effort she was investing in mere imaginings.

She never spoke of these dreams to anyone and rightly so. Why should she? There was nothing outstanding about them besides their repetition. Regina supposed that millions of people had dreams similar to hers, so what could have been so special about her own? She sighed as she slipped the matching earring through her right ear. She was now dwelling in the waking hours and there was no time for the foolishness of dreams. Her husband was no doubt eagerly awaiting her downstairs. The hour was growing later with ever wasted second, and she had a party to prepare for.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

"Mr. Claybourne, well that's a bold thing to say!"

Regina fit well into the role of Mrs. Tracy-Taylor as she tossed a playful smile toward a cheeky middle aged dandy who twiddled the end of his grayed moustache and winked at her. "I don't believe I've ever heard that one before," she said to him coyly, "I shall have to write it down in my book so that I may remember it." Her clever statements produced a growing chuckle that was unanimously echoed by the circle of well-dressed men that smelled of port wine and cigars. As each of them simultaneously vied for her attention, Regina only smiled and laughed, lightly touching a random lucky one on the arm in a seemingly accidental, yet entirely purposeful way. She was well versed – this was her game and she was a very, very good player. But who was she to kid? Regina had had a good deal of practice.

Philip Taylor, an English businessman hailing from Dorset, had made a habit of entertaining. He acquired a good many friends, acquaintances, and business associates and took great pleasure in secretly obtaining a good bit of bootleg liquor and gathering a crowd for a festive gathering. The amusement was worth the trouble, he'd always said. Once every two months, as his wife, Regina stood glamorously arrayed in the parlour, in the dining room, in the salon or out on the veranda of their uptown Chicago townhouse chatting and flirting with men who were twice her age. It was her little way of keeping house for her husband, who was well sunken into the tobacco trade. She entertained his clients and other wealthy acquaintances and kept them happy so that he could ease in a make profitable business deals. It was a convenient marriage that Regina and Phillip shared, made all the more enviable by the fact that they actually truly cared for and loved one another. They took care of each other – him financially and protectively, her as nurturer and witty conversationalist. But, Regina, ever independent for a woman of her day, only asked one thing of her husband – that she be allowed to keep her last name in tact. It was a small price to pay in Phillip Taylor's mind, so he easily granted his wife her wish. As she stood before her audience of well tailored suits, her eyes may have glittered and her lips formed an entreating smile, but everything about her silent air and stance gracefully warned any brave man that he had better not dare.

Cat-eyed and buxom, Regina stood regally near the fireplace in a cream dress of imported silk. In her left hand was a deep burgundy filled glass of Merlot that she sipped as her right hand deftly twirled her long strand of pearls between her fingers. Her laugh resembled that of a finely tuned violin solo played on the upper register. Magnetic in its own way when paired with an electric smile and wine-soaked and darkened lips. When she raised the glass to her lips, set to drown the last drop, a hint of light caught the diamonds encrusted in her wedding band glimmered in a bright twinkle fiercely. "Mr. Peterson, I might have been tempted to accept your offer though I'm not sure my husband wouldn't enjoy his end of the deal." Regina smirked as the men laughed. She looked down at the glass in her hand and sighed. "Please excuse me gentlemen, my wine glass is empty and it's not every day that my husband breaks the law and invests in illegal operations." She smiled charmingly and turned on her smart champagne coloured heels and began to leave. As she did, one of the younger fellows stopped her in her path and offered to fetch it from the kitchen for her. To this offer, she only shook her head and said, "Tsk, tsk..A woman cannot rely on a man for everything." With that statement, she made her escape before he could protest.

In truth, she did want to retain her independence, but moreso, she was in need of a break from the meaningless chatter and her pretty, yet nonfunctional shoes. The right side of her head had begun to throb, and her poor feet had were screaming obscenities at her from within their elegantly heeled confines. Regina dashed off without a look behind her and as she gladly left the circle of men. On her way, she unfortunately bumped into what she considered to be the grandest inconvenience that side of Chicago. "ReGINA! Darling, hello! How are you? I haven't seen you in so looong! What have you been up to – my, that's a lovely dress!" the inconvenience gushed and slurred. She giggled loudly, obviously already having had too many champagne glasses filled to the brim. Regina noticed another in the bleary-eyed woman's hand and rolled her eyes.

"Susie, so nice to see you," she muttered through her teeth, faking a tone of delight. She tucked a loose waved tendril back underneath one of the pearl combs that held her chignon and attempted an attentive expression. Susan Mary O'Connerly had followed poor Regina through grammar school and on through Miss Haversham's Finishing School for Ladies. Her good social graces would not allow Regina to not invite Susie to her parties. Besides, Susie's parents were perhaps the richest family in the city and Regina so enjoyed her Christmas and birthday presents from their daughter.

Susie smiled widely and then a mischievous expression spread over her face. Her voice lowered to an obnoxiously loud whisper as she motioned for Regina to come near and share her confidence. "Regina, there's a man over there that I've been talking to for the past few hours. He's handsome and he's a Harvard, but...ha ha ha...he thinks my name is Mary Sue." Susie paused as a contemplative look furrowed her brow. "Or," she added, "At least that's what I think he thinks. Yes, what I think he thinks."

"Oh," responded Regina flatly, yet still feigning interest. "Where is he?"

"Over there," Susie loudly whispered once more and dramatically pointed a red fingernail at the aforementioned man sitting near the fireplace.

As Regina looked in the direction Susie had pointed, her eyes washed over a dark young woman sitting alone in an upholstered chair in the corner. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on made Regina give a second glance to this woman after briefly taking in Susie's new beau. Who was she? She squinting and tried to distinguish and determine her identity. Yet, the smoke from the woman's cigarette that circled her head, and Susan' Mary's flighty, gesturing movements and talking would not allow her to. "Sue," Regina said distractedly while still fixated by the woman in the chair, "Are you ever going to get married?"

Susan laughed loudly, throwing her arms up in the air in amusement and simultaneously almost throwing her glass of champagne onto Regina. "Oh, yes, Reggie...I'm sure I will. When I'm good and done with having my fun."

_Reggie._ Regina loathed being called by that name. But instead of staying to correct and then potentially argue about it with the other girl, she instead only smiled and mumbled something to her drunken annoyance about needing another drink. Always in favour of another drink, Susan Mary finally allowed her to be excused with another extravagant wave of her hand. As Regina through the room on her way to the wine, she once more peered through the smoke curling around the unknown mistress. She felt no flash of recognition's lighting blazed through her mind as she expected it to. With a shrug of her shoulders and without a second thought, she continued on her way. Upon reaching the drink table, Regina concluded that the woman was most probably Phillip's second cousin Adele who was visiting town. He claimed she was somewhat of an eccentric and which intrigued and bored Regina at the same time. Regina thought it best to return to her guests promptly and this time, only glanced the woman in question out of her peripheral vision as she glided past her.

The woman who had successfully intrigued Regina remained had sat casually in the luxuriously upholstered oversized red velvet chair in the corner of the room for most of the duration of the party. With her legs tucked under her and one arm casually draped over the arm of the chair, she remained silent. She could have been a painting or a sculpture as much as a living, breathing soul. To most, she preferred to remain nameless and retain her mystery. Yet to anyone familiar with the touring classical concert circuit, she could have easily been picked out as Adele Norwood, with the calluses on the fingers of her left hand serving as concrete proof. Around Adele, small throngs of people were drinking and chatting. Laughing. From another room, she was certain that she heard the slightly air-muffled sounds of a phonograph playing lively jazz music. Where there was jazz at a party, she knew there'd be makeshift dancing also. This party was most likely positive to be one of those affair, but she did not care enough to see for herself Instead, she chose to remain in her chair, gazing out from her dark bob and blowing smoke rings around her head. Adele raised a hand to her hair and twirled a lock of it. Subconsciously, she fashioned one of the strands so it curled underneath in a neat black rimmed circle. "Hmm," she mused looking upon her creation, satisfied with herself. Yes, she quite liked that. With her other hand she raised her long cigarette holder and brought it to her lips taking a lengthy drag from it. Nonchalantly, she flicked the stem of it, dashing dead ash from the cigarette's end before languidly taking another puff from it.

Of all the places in the known universe she could be, Adele would have rather have been anywhere but where she sat. Trapped by society's idea of politeness and respect to family, she was unspokenly held prisoner in the expensive corner brownstone until her cousin formally decided to call it quits. There was no one she hated more than her cousin just then. The party was bland – lackluster and had become dull within the first half hour of her attendance. She decided that instead of attempting to make frivolous conversation with pretentious, rich snobs, she'd simply find a seat and a method of entertaining herself for the duration of the joyous misery. She had her cigarettes and drinks for company as she watched the party-goers. Adele allowed her imagination to run wild, inventing tragic pasts and secret lives for the guests of her cousin Phillip who were in attendance that night, yet still she couldn't stifle the yawn the erupted from the back of her throat. She stretched her arm to where her brandy rested on the table beside her. With her index finger, she traced its rim and then plunged her finger inside. After taking the finger into her mouth and sucking the bitter liquid off, once more she mused in her head about how very nice it would be to return to the peace and quiet of her hotel room where she could sit and soak in her bathtub, eyes closed and head resting against the cool porcelain. Every inch of her boredom and disdain for social gatherings melting away with each bubble. "Mmmm, that's a glorious thought," she told herself.

Adele's pleasant little reverie came to a crashing stop when she heard her father's persistent voice in her ear. "Dammit," she said out loud, and twisted her mouth into a sideways scowl. She took another pull from her cigarette's stem and blew the smoke harshly upward to the high heavens. _Now, now Adele, _she told herself_. We must be nice. Nice, polite, and gracious. After all snobs make your world go round and don't you forget it. They pay for it to spin as nicely as it does. _She shifted her position in the chair, leaning all of her weight onto left arm and hunching over slightly. Her eyes fell upon a figure in the corner. He was dressed in black and still had on his coat and hat. Adele watched as he crossed the room, pulling a cigar from his pocket as he approached her.

"Excuse me, but might you have a light?" he asked in a faint accent that Adele could not place. He was probably twice her age, climbing into his late forties and had a kind face. Yet something about his appearance and presence unnerved her.

Maintaining her languid posture and lax, flippant attitude, but still a bit wide eyed, she produced her silver plated butane lighter. Holding it up to him, she flicked its top open and offered the man its flame. He bent over and placed the cigar's butt to the fire. Sucking inward repeatedly, he pulled the flame into the stick. Adele watched as the flame performed a waxing and waning dance as smoke began to curl upward from the cigar. The man gave the end a once over and satisfied that it was sufficiently lit, took a few quick puffs from it. Looking down at his cigar, the stranger said lowly in his oddly accented voice, "You know, little Romani should not meddle with things of the old way if they do not take the care to understand them." He brought his deep set eyes up to meet Adele's questioning blank stare, and tipped the lit cigar to her. "Thank you for the light," he told her and then strode away without another word.

Adele's eyes followed him as he departed, feeling her heart begin to thump heavily within her chest. _Romani?_ What in God's bloody bleeding, green...no, _white_ earth was he talking about? Romani. After a moment's consideration, she remembered that she had perhaps heard the word somewhere before. Where, she did not recall. Yet, it sounded unusually familiar to her. However, in her usual fashion, she decided to ignore it and think about at a later date and time when she could mull over it alone and in peace. Strange, though. He had been the first man to approach her all night. Adele was not overly narcissistic by any means. But she was also not blind to and could easily see how men found her large doe eyes and sarcastic, toying smile attractive. She wondered if it were her persistent scowl that had staved them off and prevented anyone from approaching her. Adele wasn't sure, but if it was her down-turned mouth that did the trick, then she was proud of herself.

Jeffrey Kennedy stood at the edge of the sidewalk near the street and looked up to survey the grandeur of the newly built town house before him. He frowned. It was impressive, no doubt, but too big. Too presumptuous. At the still young age of 23, Jeffrey had already set his mind becoming somewhat of a social activist. Cynical to perfectly good wealth squandered on lavish houses and dressings, he promised himself that should he ever come into any money he would put it better use by donating to charity, promoting the arts, or the like. Yet he doubted that his lowly position as a society columnist would get him any closer to riches other than the ones shoved under his nose whenever he ventured into another fine house to cover some pretentious, stuffy social event. He took a deep breath, knowing that the night was being prolonged by his standing in one place. He straightened his hat upon his head and said, "Well, best to get the selling of my soul over with for the night." And so Jeffrey strode forward armed with his paper, pens, and good intentions to lay his soul down upon the altar of the devils with halos and beautiful capes.

One, two, three – he stepped up to the door of the stepped up to the door of the house. Only standing on the step, he could still hear quite well the music and clatter of jovial voices emanating from the party inside. Shaking the snowflakes off of his hat and brushing them off of his coat, he collected himself, put on the most distinguished, professional face he would muster and rapped his knuckles four times on the great oak door before him. Jeffrey waited. He turned and over his shoulder watched a stream of four motorcars pass. He whistled a jazzy tune he'd heard the night before in some dive he'd stopped in after work. Still no answer. He raised his hand to the door to knock once more when suddenly the door swung open before him. Before him stood an elegantly dressed man in tails and white gloves, his white moustache matching the rim of white hair lining the top of his bald, shiny head. He disdainfully gave Jeffrey a critical once over, and raising his eyebrow said, "And how can I help you sir?"

Jeffrey tipped his hat to the butler politely. "I'm Jeffrey Kennedy," he said. When the butler showed no recognition or slight willingness to step aside and let the younger man in, Jeffrey cleared his throat and added, "As in Jeffrey Kennedy of the Society Pages of the Chicago Sun-Times." Even after the clarification, the doorman still hesitated, continuing to eye Jeffrey with a questioning stare. The young journalist, always one for sport, returned the elder man's searching gaze.

"Well then, Mr. Kennedy, if you please?" the butler said finally, stepping aside and holding the door open as Jeffrey passed through into the large foyer. Once inside the young man vigorously wiped his wet boots on the rug. "Your coat?" he asked in a contempt laden tone.

Jeffrey removed his coat and hat and handing them into the butler's waiting arms, took a quick look around the interior of the house. There was nothing special about it, really. Of course, everything about it was lavish and utterly sumptuous - the walls were covered in dark mahogany woods, the windows hung with velvet tapestries, and the rooms dimly lit with crystal chandeliers. It was old money in its best luxuriously tasteful state, yet there was nothing unique about this home that could distinguish it in his memory from the hundreds of other upper class homes that he'd visited. He refolded and smoothed his collar and straightened his tie before stepping into the main sitting room. As he did, a young woman near the fire tittered loudly and slapped the knee of the man sitting beside her. Jeffrey looked at her, and as he did, something above the mantle over her head caught the corner of his eye. He whipped his head back around for a second glance, which soon became an awed stare. "Jesus..." He whistled softly and stepped over to it for closer inspection.

Looking back at him was...a figure. A young woman probably not much older than himself, but ageless in her unshakable grace and knowing eyes. Dark hair the colour of brown cherrywood draped her back in silken waves as she gazed over a smooth shoulder. Her dress was silken – black and low cut enough to reveal a fair portion of her lithe back. Jeffrey found her gaze almost wistful. Her silence spoke to him and urged him to remain longer with her. The entire portrait was clearly...well, what was it? Something in him seemed to recognize the figure in the portrait, yet, Jeffrey could not recall ever meeting her in his entire life. It was a complete impossibility. There was no way that this was anyone he had ever known, much less, remembered in such a glorious, attached way. "Excuse me," he said to the butler who had been halted from making his escape. "Who is that woman? That one, up there in the painting over the mantle?"

The butler gave a quick regarding glance to it and in a toneless voice replied, "That is Ms. Regina. The lady of the house. Your hostess."

"Oh," was Jeffrey's reply. The revelation and naming of the picture's subject still shed no light into his clouded, un-remembering mind. "God," Jeffrey said to himself. "I need a drink. A stiff, hard liquor and a lot of it." He left the painting's side and went in search of such a drink that would be potent enough to clear his mind as well as his sinuses. He set off in search of his drink, but could not leave the room without one more look back at the figure in the portrait.

The entrance way to the room which held the beverages and food was blocked by a throng of gentleman, all suited, smoking, and drinking. Jeffrey had to issue out a loud "pardon me" and a tap on the shoulder to one individual before he was allowed enough room to squeeze between the bodies and the door-case. Phillip Taylor was a member of the living barricade. He stood next to a younger man than himself, with whom he chatted to eagerly. "Your father and I have had an excellent partnership all these years and I think that by far we have made our best deal yet." Phillip said to the other man. Another joined the group and caught Phillip's eye. "Oh, Collins, have you met Sawyer Cole yet?" He gestured to the smiling gent beside him.

"Why no, I don't believe so," Collins returned, taking a puff from his pipe thoughtfully.

"Well, then," Taylor said with delight, apparently pleased with his ability to make a new introduction. "Thomas Collins, meet Sawyer Cole. Heir to Cole Industries. Lucian's son."

"Ah, yes. Lucian." Collins raised his pipe toward the young Cole. "Nice to meet you, my boy."

Phillip clapped a hand upon Sawyer's shoulder and smiled proudly. "Cole Industries has been quite an asset to our _little_ operation for the past ten years. '21 was a particularly good year for the partnership. Wouldn't you agree, Cole?"

In Sawyer's left hand was a cigarette, which he brought to his mouth and sucked on lightly. With a debonair smile and a nonchalant exhalation, he blew a cloud of smoke that hovered around the glass of brandy he held in his other hand. The blue-gray haze smothered the liquor's golden brown brilliance as Sawyer coolly waved his hand. "This is a party," "Come now. We should be enjoying ourselves. No talk of business," he said with in a bemused voice and abruptly ended all talk of the subject. Only Sawyer Cole could accomplish a feat of that nature in a manner of such unabashed confidence and utter ease without seeming even the slightest bit rude or ungracious. Casually, he winked at Phillip and silently won him with the same charm that had won him the hands of ladies in love and gentlemen in profitable business deals alike.

From his seat in the living room, Jeffrey could just well overhear the conversation that Phillip and his group were holding in the corner. He dipped his fingertip into his half drunk glass of ale and traced the rim with his wet finger before putting it into his mouth and sucking the soured warm liquor from it. He should have been jotting notes down in the pad of paper that was resting safely in his breast pocket about what old money snob was in attendance and what his fluffed up peacock of a wife was wearing. Who had sent their eligible-to-wed daughter to capture a husband and what gentleman she toyed with in her sharpened claws, or rather, kept company with for the duration of the night's events. "What would you say about the merger we spoke of earlier?" Phillip's hearty Dorset intonation wafted through the air to him. In response, came a male laugh which Jeffrey regarded as strangely enough, all too well known. Had they gone to university together, he wondered.

"I say that what you say is what I say," he imagined the man replying and chuckled to himself. Jeffrey had no idea where he had pulled such an unusual statement from, yet it seemed the most natural thing to fall from the stranger's mouth. A pair of familiar mischief filled blue eyes lit by an easy smirk flashed before his mind's eye, but the rest of the picture was blurred, marred from vision's distinguishing. But that one fragment of lingering unspoken conversation was as real to him as his own hands before him. Jeffrey had always had a vivid imagination and colourful dreams as a byproduct. Perhaps the memory was nothing more than a coincidental lingering overlap from his subconscious and a simple mistake that he remembered it. He decided it best to not try to over-think or try to understand it as was his nature. The woman sitting next to him in a large velvet chair he could see vaguely out of the corner of his eye. Without bothering to turn toward her, he lifted his glass in toast his resigned decision. As he blindly lifted his glass, he put it all down to one charming moment where the stars aligned briefly and happenstance intervened for his amusement.

Sawyer glanced out of the velvet draped window. The snowfall was lessening. When he had arrived, blankets of flakes were pouring down. Now they only passed through his windowed line of sight in small velvet ivory flurries. Phillip clapped his hand upon Sawyer's shoulder and in a jovial voice said, "Yes, we're all old married men, escaping the womanly chatter of our wives, but Cole here's one of our city's most eligible bachelors. I'm sure all of the ladies have been tripping over themselves trying to win his hand. When are you going to put them out of their misery and make one girl more happy than she's ever been in her entire life?"

Sawyer laughed, his blue eyes dancing. "That's a question I'm sure my father would like answer to also. At least once a month, he asks me that. He wants an heir. He wants to perpetuate his company and, um, ensure himself a little piece of immortality, I think. I keep telling him that I will be more than happy to settle down and raise a family when I find the right woman. Trouble is, the right woman has not presented herself to me yet." As he talked, he looked up and magically, his eyes fell upon that right woman. She was skirting the edge of the crowd, slinking through the room. Despite her deliberate pains to sneak past everyone unnoticed, he could find nothing on earth wrong with her. Her face, he only saw in profile, for her hair shadowed the rest of her features. However, he somehow could not shake the feeling that she was perfect and exactly what he had been looking for. The end to fruitless dabbling and disappointing long-term ventures.

He didn't know why, but he suddenly found himself distractedly asking Phillip if he would please excuse him for a moment. Intently, he started towards this woman, as if in a trance – magnetized to her side, not letting his eyes stray from her thin frame silhouette in effervescent golden silk as he moved in closer behind her. Regina, Sawyer's gaze and pursuit unbeknownst to her, wove a quiet path through the guest filled rooms. When trapped or caught, she would only offer a brief pause accompanied with a gracious smile and a short hello, and then she would excuse herself just as quickly as she had stopped. It seemed to Sawyer that continuing her path to her destination was unspeakably vital, and her determination intrigued him all the more. Her face was still a mystery to him, yet her stance and stride, the grace of her body in motion, was as powerful as the siren's song. His intended needed no poetry of the face, for her motion had music. The confidence of her posture sang lilted glory and curve of her body swept into a crescendo which rose into the tilt of her head's coda.

To his amazement, she never turned to look behind her.

Regina had taken new glass of merlot with an affable smile, and then made away with it like a bandit. Her head unceasingly pulsated with a dull pain, renewed in force and vigor by the loud raucous chatter, shrill intoxicated laughter, and cigar smoke filling nearly every room she occupied. Seeking refuge, she made her way through the crowd as slyly as she could manage, and then slipped into the peaceful silence of her husband's study. Inside the voices were muffled and sounded as though they could have been miles away, not a one distinguishable from another in tone or complexity. The temperature in the empty room was at least five degrees cooler from lack of bodies and provided her with one small ounce of relief. It was times like this when Regina thought of what a mean business being the wife of a well-to-do gentleman was. The corporate web of contacts and social obligations trapped women like her and forced them to be superhuman – always smiling, never tiring, always delightful, charming, and well attired. "Well attired, my ass," Regina mumbled. She rested her bowled goblet of wine on the mantle, and held its beveled ledge with her left hand while using the right to remove her bone-coloured shoe.

She let it drop to the floor and rubbed the aching ball of her foot slowly, letting her fingers attempt to ease out the tension. "Stupid shoes," she muttered. Regina let her right floor slide to the cool wooden floor, and stretched out her toes. "Stupid, God damn, fucking, gorgeous shoes." She repeated the entire procedure once more with her left foot, tossing the damned thing to the floor hotly. "I hate you," she hissed, with the scorn of a betrayed lover in her voice. Regina looked down to the floor at her discarded pair of shoes. Her poor, defenseless shoes. "No, I love you," she added, her tone softer and apologetic. Endeared to them suddenly, she bent down and picked up the shoe once again. While holding it to her breast as through it were her own living, breathing, child, she paused, and with a twist of her perfectly plum mouth, considered the situation. She then thought better of her current decision of love and romantic devotion toward her silly heeled slipper, and carelessly tossed it back onto the floor. "No, I _hate _you," she said, sighing and staring down at her fallen shoe. She laughed. It looked so sad lying there, disposed of, on the floor. She almost found herself pitying it again. "But I still think you're beautiful," she offered in recompense.

Contrary to her knowledge Sawyer had followed her stealthily and was standing at the doorway to private recluse, witnessing the entire scene. She stood with her back to him as he hovered in the entranceway, silent as a preying hawk. He had to cover his mouth and concentrate his utmost to stifle his laughter as Regina did battle and made up with her shoes. As he stood there watching, he was scared to move or make a sound – frightened to breathe lest he disturb her and end the intimate scene before him. Besides, Sawyer did not believe that the woman he held hard in his gaze would take kindly to some strange man spying on her private affairs. Almost as soon as the thought has formed solidly in his head, he saw Regina begin to turn about face. He could have run away, could have easily slipped behind the wall and out of her view, yet he found his feet riveted to the floor. Sawyer Cole let out a deep exhalation as for the first time, she turned fully toward him and her face came into view.

As Regina spun around and glimpsed her admirer, she started. She convulsed in surprise, one smooth hand going to her heart as she cursed softly under her breath. The light caught the diamond in the band she wore around her left ring finger and as Sawyer's eye fell upon it, his heart sunk deeply into his chest. "I'm sorry," he apologized quickly. "I didn't mean to startle you or disturb you, I just..." His voice trailed of as his gaze met hers. His eyes narrowed a bit and traced the curve of her jaw, arch of her brow, the sheen of dark hair that she quickly brushed out of her eyes in frustration. He knew this woman that stood before him. He somehow knew her. But, no. That was impossible – he had never once met her in the span of his entire life. Yet, still, she so clearly reminded him of someone very dear to his own heart. The resemblance was jarring and even unholy. He let his tongue grace over his bottom lip, licking it in thought and staring wordlessly for a moment of tense silence before stating, "Hey, I know this sounds strange. But did anyone ever tell you that you...look..." He shook his head. "No, I'm – I'm sorry." He sighed deeply. "You just look amazingly like someone I think I used to know. A long...time...ago." Sawyer turned to go, but Regina foiled his retreat and dashed every thought he had of leaving with one word.

"Spot."

Her voice was breathless and shaky, yet his name fell from her lips so deliberately, so clearly and unmistakably. He stopped dead in his tracks. "What did you say?" he asked. Without knowing what she was doing or why, she boldly strode across the room and clasped his arm. As she touched him, her heart fluttered within her chest. Her pounding, aching head began to swim and she felt heat, pure electric heat mixed with nausea, course through her. With this new rush of emotion and sensation, she recoiled and drew back her hand. Her cast toward her shoes, she retreated across the room.

Sawyer turned around slowly, his gaze instantly transfixed upon Regina's face. "Ray," he began hesitantly, "Is that you?"

Regina nodded. As the realization and recognition of who he was, and moreso who she was flooded her mind, her eyes began to well up and brim red with tears. Yet she choked them back in one grand effort of restraint and coughed instead.

Sawyer noticed her struggle and knit his brows with concern. "Hey," he asked in a soft voice, "You okay?"

"No, I'm not," Regina thought, feeling the back of her throat start to burn. She swallowed hard, fighting back the building lump that had taken residence. "You're here. In the flesh. Standing only feet away from me. I've got no idea how that's possible. Hell, I've got no idea who I am anymore. Therefore, I think I just might vomit on the new oriental carpet. Perhaps on your shiny, expensive shoes if you come near enough." She steadied herself and managed a yes, held out her hand and Sawyer stopped before reaching her. One hand held to her stomach as comfort, she rose and straightened her posture. Regina studied herself for a moment and then looked back at him. "Yes," she repeated once more. Though her mouth was dry and the lump still present, this time, she managed to push out a louder and more definite voice from the back of her throat.

There were a million things he wanted to say to her. Things that he had been storing up for what seemed like an eternity. They had always been with him for as long as he could remember. Sawyer did not know who he wanted to say them to or why, but now, looking at Ray reincarnated and alive before him, he realized that his heart had always known. Yet, despite the masses of declarations she evoked from him, Sawyer's voice caught in the back of his throat as he looked upon the face of the love he lost twenty years prior. For a moment, they both only stood in silence, baffled by the fact that they were there, gazing upon each other once more and wondering how it could be. How it could possibly be that they remained preserved and born again into different bodies only to find each other that winter night in a different time and a different city? As no said word passed between them, only the faint distant roar of voices and the ticking of the cartel clock on the mantle could be heard. Yet, just as the tension hanging in the air breathed unbearably thick, Sawyer's trademark confidence and swagger clicked on within him.

A small, smug smile came over his face and lit his blue eyes afire. He adjusted his dinner jacket and tie and slowly strode across the room to the desk where Regina stood. He distractedly picked up a pen lying across the desk and put it back down. A brass paperweight in the shape of a clipper ship caught his eye, and he ran his finger over it lightly. Regina glimpsed what was entertaining him, and with a wave of her hand casually responded, "That's Phillip's. I can't stand boats. He loves them. I abhor them." Sawyer smiled and then in looping cursive, traced her name in the dust on the desktop with his pointer finger. Her former name of over twenty years prior. Finally, he said with a note of sarcasm in his inflection, "Rachel Tortulo, what's a girl like you doing in a place like this? You've moved up in the world, haven't you worker girl?"

"Same as you, street rat." Her reply came quick and instinctive. Before she was fully aware of what she had said, she found the words shooting off of her tongue as though it were second nature to her. Her hand came to her heart. She'd forgotten her composure. A lady of her breeding would never think of uttering such a sharp tongued response, and she would never, ever stoop to using coarse, derogatory slang labels.

Sawyer stepped toward her, daring to draw nearer to her than she should have allowed him to. The presence of his body so close to hers made her heart race rapidly. It had been over 20 years and still she felt as though it were their first meeting. In a very real way, it was. But nothing had changed. He still made every part of her shake and shiver in a way that not even her husband could have ever compared to. Without asking or waiting for a sign of her permission or approval, Sawyer brought his hand to the side of her neck and brushed a stray lock of waved hair away from it. He leaned over until his lips almost touched her cheekbone and inhaled, drawing the fragrance of her jasmine scented hair inside of him. She can feel his breath, hot and slow moving over the curve of her neck. It made her utterly nervous, and she found that despite her vain efforts, she cannot keep a single thought inside of her head. Her flesh flushed hot and though she tried to raise her voice in protest, nothing came out except a single choked sigh. Sawyer moved from her hair to her ear as slyly and painstakingly slow as he felt she could bear. In a low, whispery voice drunk with seductive intentions, he murmured, "Ray....What do you remember?"

Regina shut her eyes tight at the question, but did not have to waste one moment of thought on her answer. It came as naturally to her as breathing or her mother's face. "Everything," she said softly.

Jeffrey leaned forward in his chair, jotting down nonsensical notes that he somehow hoped to transform into a professional, coherent article. Realizing what garbage he was scrawling onto the paper before him, his mouth twisted into a dissatisfied scowl. In frustration, he scratched though three quarters of his written remarks, and then ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck as he surveyed what remained. "Nothing," he mumbled under his breath. "I've got nothing." The night was not growing any younger, only aging. Time was fleeting and soon, the party would be at an end, and Jeffrey would still be obligated to produce something for the next day's afternoon paper. How hard could it be, he asked himself. All he had to do was write about what was going on around him. He only needed to lift his head, observe the room, perhaps walk around a make enough short, polite conversation to gather some names, and then sit and convert all of that into words. It was so deceptively easy that Jeffrey found it impossible. With a deep, ragged sigh of resignation, he tore the paper from its binding and tossed it to the side. It landed on the floor near the feet of occupant of the chair next to his.

He needed to clear his head and recollect his thoughts, and he was certain that he needed a swallow or two of his drink to help him do such. Though his mind scolded him for not staying on target and finishing up the note-taking before indulging in pleasure or relaxation, he chose to ignore it and blindly stuck his hand out to his side to fish for his glass on the table to his right. The woman sitting next to him had obviously had the same idea. For the moment Jeffrey went for his glass of ale, she reached for hers of wine and their hands converged as they reached inward. Their fingers brushed softly at the knuckles, and the woman's head shot up instantly upon the touch. Jeffrey withdrew his slowly, the contact mysteriously leaving him feeling as though he had been burnt by compressed steam. However, she retracted her hand as though he had made her an unwilling participant in some form of foul play, snatching it back and then holding it to her breast. From under the dark hair shadowing her eyes and forehead, she shot him an accusatory glare.

"Oh pardon me," he said politely. Then his voice decreased to a bitter mumble when he added, "I didn't know it was crime to accidentally touch someone in such a manner. What in hell was I thinking?" He wrote the words "_genial gathering of Chicago's finest at the home of Phillip Taylor, tobacco tycoon_" and then cast a glance out of the corner of his eye at the woman he had apparently heartlessly "attacked and affronted."

There was something about the strange way she was looking at him. It was as though she was probing him for an undisclosed secret with only her eyes. Jeffrey wasn't certain that he exactly liked the way her stare felt upon him. It gave him the eerie sense that she wasn't looking over him as much as she was trying to see through him. He fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair and pulled at the tie at his throat, but still tried to pretend that he was utterly unaffected by her in any way and absorbed in his work. Her body leaned away from him and she had the wild look of a frightened cat in her eyes. She looked a million miles away in the expansive depth of her large red armchair. "_Phillip Taylor, tobacco tycoon_" he wrote once more and then capped his pen. Holding it tightly in his hand, he lifted his head and turned toward her. He scoffed and was about to form the word "What?" But the word stuck in the back of his throat as his eyes met hers. He felt the blood drain from his face and the coolness of a strange, altering air blow over him.

_He felt small hands press against his rough, calloused ones as soft fingers slid into the vacant grooves between his. Rushing of the throngs of people going to and fro under the blanket of sunshine spun talk around him. Only a few clipped words were distinguishable to him at a time. The rest was meshed chatter, one cacophonous current that swum around the both of them. The space was small and filled with bodies of every colour and distinction. He had only room to hover near to the dark hair girl who walked in step beside him, their elbows touching as they moved together. As they squeezed by a woman holding a basket of dry goods and a sulking child on her hip with three more linking hands in tow behind her, he lead her by the hand and waggled his eyebrows down at her while a grin took hold of his face. They stopped at a fruit vender's stand. Though hundreds of yellow green pairs, deep violet black plums, sweet peach peaches, and other attractive fruits were laid out before her, he watched as she reached over and only slid her hand into the basket of golden red apples. She produced one, and held it up to marvel at the fine specimen it was._

_"Audrey, all you ever eat are those dumb apples. Do you even know what anything else tastes like?" he teased, tapping her nose with the tip of his index finger and still grinning wildly._

_"No I don't, mister. And I'd think twice about teasing me like that. In fact, go away if you are going to tease me, Jack," she said hastily with a wave of her hand as she began to rummage for money to pay the apple vender. With a shrug of his shoulders, Jack put on a fine pout and left her side, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and scuffing his shoes dejectedly as he began to disappear into the crowd. Audrey turned to search for him, honestly not believing that he would heed her joking command. She spotted him a few feet from her, steadily walking away. "Wait! Jack!" she called after him, "I didn't mean you had to...oh, nevermind." With a sigh, she turned to the expectant vender and asked, "How much for the apples?" She had made her way to the dry good stand from which she was purchasing flour when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She whirled around, as she did, and single white daisy was thrust upward into her line of sight, rendering her unable to see much else. She smiled and looked downward at Jack, bent at the waist, holding his offering upward. _

_"Ha ha ha Kelly!" She plucked the daisy from his hand and smelled it. As he rose to his full height, she threw her arms around his neck, catching him off guard and causing him to stumble backward. Despite his faltering, she still held fast. "I love you, you silly boy," she said into his chest and then lifted her head to him. He smiled downward at her and felt his heart swell within his chest as the sparkling deep of her eyes penned an eternal memory into the book of his mind. _

Befuddled and confused, he started at her wordlessly, heart racing within his chest. The wild, cat-like look in her dark eyes was gone. It had been replaced by the startling champagne cork pop of recognition that lit dancing flames making her eyes sparkle anew. A gentle, coy smirk pulled at the corners of her downturned mouth and forced them upward to the shape of a crescent moon. She leaned inward, her elbow resting on the table that divided them and her chin propped upon her hand. In a low, breathy, voice, she offered to him the culmination of twenty years' sentiment in two words. "Hello, stranger."

* * *

_A/N:_

**Ravy:** (dies)  
**Tues:** (dies)  
**Ravy:** This story is a beast.  
**Tues:** And there's more. The chapter was so long that, to our dismay, we had to cut it into two.

_Thank you's:_

**Sparks**:  
**R**: MUAHAH! I made you cry! Tell Spot!muse to get over himself otherwise he can't come over and play.  
**T**: Punishing the Spot!muse....wow. He's not going to take kindly to that. This was a tear-free chapter. But just you wait, 'Enry 'Iggins. Just you wait.

**Script:  
****R: (**hands over some Ritalin)  
**T:** (hands over insane amount of Pixie Stix and this chapter)

**Snarky:  
****T: **Our characters don't irk or suck. Wow. That's a good thing. I don't think Ray or Audrey would take kindly to being called irksome. They're temperamental. Ray would break something glass and Audrey would sulk. And she was known to hit Jeffrey with a chair during the production of this chapter. We edited that out for young readers.  
**R: **Yay for your loving of Ray and Audrey. They work well together don't they? HA. I told you so, now listen to me more often damn you!

**Akiko Iris:  
****T: **Ugh. Sorry about Spot. It's just that I've got some sort of vendetta against him and revel in killing him. The more brutally, the better.  
**R: **Tuesday likes to kill people who bother her and Spot happens to be one of those people. Don't worry about it. I did make Jack freeze to death didn't I?

**Dewey:  
****R: **Did you just read the new A/N....We are on crack, officially.  
**T: **(Shhhh. No talking about the crack.) What's all this sudden protectiveness of Spot? He's a big boy. He can take care of himself. He can bring himself...back...to...life. Ha.

**Tues and Ravy**: Read and review? makes puppy eyes Please?

_More behind the scenes fun:_

**Ravy**: Roar! BE GONE EVIL WINTER DEMON!  
**Tues:** I thought you were going to say the story was roaring onward. Like "Roar!" as a battle cry.  
**Ravy**: No. No battle cries.  
**Tues:** Maybe we need a battle cry to jumpstart it. Or a gypsy spell.  
**Ravy:** Sigh  
**Tues:** But gypsy spells are dangerous. They reincarnate you.  
**Ravy:** They so do, man.

**Tues**: Okay. So we need something on Phillip's desk for Sawyer to toy with.  
**Ravy: **Like a paperweight?  
**Tues**: Yes. Like a good, solid, brass paperweight. Of something distinguished.  
**Ravy:** Like a feather? OH I DON'T KNOW.  
**Tues:** No. More like a clipper ship. Clipper ship? Is that the right name?  
**Ravy**: ? Why don't you research it?  
**Tues:** I think it's a clipper ship.  
**Ravy**: We are such dorks. We are researching paperweights.  
**Tues:** I really think it's a clipper ship.  
**Ravy:** I don't know. I hate boats.

**Tues:** Okay. Sawyer/Regina done! Now onto Jeffrey/Audrey. Bloody hell.  
**Ravy:** Ha ha.  
**Tues**: I was just thinking that I need to put on Eye of the Tiger for motivation.  
**Ravy:** Why Eye of the Tiger? Why not Mortal Combat?  
**Tues:** I don't know. Eye of the Tiger is victorious...motivational...like "I can punch Winter's lights out and conquer it. Yeah!" Mortal Combat is just violence.  
**Ravy**: I don't know. I like Mortal Combat better. MORTAL COMBAAAAAT! See?  
**Tues:** um, no.  
**Ravy:** Hey, that could be like our battle cry. MORTAL COMBAAAAAAT!

**  
Tues:** What is this: "He felt soft hands beneath his caloused one, sliding into the grooves presented to him."  
**Ravy**: Did I write that?  
**Tues:** Uh, yes. Are they holding hands?  
**Ravy:** I think.  
**Tues:** You don't know? You wrote it. Sigh. No. Sorry, I must have wrote it and then forgot both that I did and what it was. So I asked you.  
**Ravy:** Shut up.  
**Tues:** We can't leave it like that if both of us can't tell what it is. rewrites and comes back Okay, I changed the second part...put in digits. But I can't write "digits."  
**Ravy:** Yeah. Digits?  
**Tues:** Sounds like I'm writing a cheesy romance. Like digits are up there with "pulsating member" to me.  
**Ravy**: Throbbing member of manhood.  
**Tues: **Spear of holy divine reckoning.  
**Ravy**: Arrow of thrusting orgasm.  
**Tues:** Rod of...no.  
**Ravy:** Why are we doing this?


End file.
